


We've Got Some Work To Do, Now

by LayALioness



Series: Those Meddling Kids [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, sort of, this is essentially Scooby Doo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy buys a Mystery Machine and accidentally solves some crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Got Some Work To Do, Now

**Author's Note:**

> Well I was GOING to write something serious and angsty for a song prompt, but then I babysat my 7 year old cousin and this happen OH WELL.
> 
> Title from the Scooby Doo theme bc I know what I'm about.
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you feel like it: tierannasaurusrex.tumblr.com  
> Or even if you don't, I'm not picky.

When Bellamy buys the van, he isn’t intending to use it to solve crimes.

He just saw the ad on Craigslist, and his Saturn was on its last leg anyway, and there’d be enough room for Octavia’s dance team when they carpooled to practice every Friday. Plus, the guy wanted to get rid of it pretty badly, so it was basically free.

“This is literally a disaster,” Wick says, frowning dismally at the engine.

“I think that’s a little extreme,” Bellamy muses, picking at a fleck of rust on the hood. “ _Metaphorical_ disaster, maybe.”

“No, he’s right,” Clarke says from her seat on the front stoop of their house. “It’s pretty shitty.” She doesn’t bother looking up from whatever sketch she’s working on, for the tattoo parlor down the road. It looks like it might be Bugs Bunny, wearing a cape and funny hat.

On second thought, the sketch might just be for her. Who really knows, with Clarke.

“You drive a _moped_ ,” Bellamy scoffs. “Your opinion isn’t valid.”

“Her name is Ingrid,” Clarke says primly, “And she’s _awesome_.”

Bellamy shakes his head; only Clarke would give her vehicle a name from the average senior citizens’ Bingo Night. She said she named it after her grandmother, but he can’t be sure.

Bellamy still gets sort of annoyed whenever he realizes he knows a pretty good amount about Clarke Griffin—she’s sort of his landlord, which he’s pretty sure means any sort of personal relationship is a bad idea.

She’s also funny, and gorgeous, and talented, and exactly his type. Or would be, if she was available, which she definitely _isn’t_ , so he’s taken to avoiding her, for self-preservation. Or at least _trying_ to avoid her. Which has turned out to be pretty much impossible, since they live side-by-side in a moderately small duplex, and she’s _always_ out on the stoop, and he’s not really desperate enough to sneak in and out through the back window. Yet.

“Look, can you fix the clutch or not?” Bellamy grouses, turning back to Wick. The van itself _runs_ , in the sense that when he stomps the gas pedal it moves forward, and stops moving when he hits the brake. But it’s a stick shift, which he’s barely comfortable with, and the stick itself keeps sticking between gears.

“Of course I can,” Wick scoffs, like there was never really any question, which isn’t necessarily fair. All he’s done so far is insult Bellamy’s new car and glare down at its engine. It hasn’t been very encouraging. “But first, take your shirt off.”

Bellamy sighs, but tugs off the shirt and tosses it at him. Wick was there the night he drunkenly got the electric blue butterfly tattooed over his heart, and likes to tease him about it at every opportunity.

Clarke gives a wolf whistle, and Bellamy glances up to find her grinning over. It’s things like _that_ that make his life impossible. He flushes, to his dismay, and looks away.

“It probably isn’t worth more than scrap metal, though,” Wick warns, and Bellamy snaps his attention back to the van.

“It’s perfect,” he defends, closing the hood gently. It used to be the favored lime green of the seventies, but has faded and peeled over time, so now it just looks like mold growing in patches over the metal. There’s rusty orange shag carpeting inside, and an ancient air freshener shaped like a peace sign, that smells like cat pee.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Clarke shoots, and Bellamy snatches his shirt back to throw it at _her_.

“Bell!” Octavia calls, horrified, as she steps off the school bus. Usually he just drives her, but sometimes he works, or has to get objectified by his asshole friends while they make fun of his car. “Why are you _naked_?”

Bellamy shoots her a raised brow as the bus pulls away. “Don’t be such a prude, O.”

“You wouldn’t let me wear a strapless dress to Homecoming,” she accuses, and he shrugs. She’s recently sixteen, and extremely easy to rile up. He can’t really help it.

“Once you’re eighteen, feel free to stand around topless in your front yard all you want,” he teases. “After you’ve moved out,” he adds hastily, making a face. Octavia huffs, and then crosses over to sit beside Clarke pointedly, because she likes her better.

He can’t really blame her, and that’s just another reason he can’t be with Clarke. One of many, each more frustrating than the last. Octavia doesn’t have many friends— _real_ friends—but sometimes she’ll spend the whole weekend at Clarke’s, letting her paint her nails like stained glass, playing wii-tennis, and eating jalapeno poppers for breakfast because he isn’t there to stop her.

Her other friends include a soccer player that’s too embarrassed to acknowledge her outside of school, and a pair of kids Bellamy’s pretty sure grow pot in their mother’s basement. So far, Clarke’s coming out on top, and he refuses to ruin that for his sister.

“Clarke doesn’t stand around topless,” Octavia points out. “And she has _way_ more tattoos than you.”

Bellamy’s immediate response would be _how many tattoos does she have?_ followed by _can I see them?_ But he has more restraint than that, so instead he says, “Maybe she’s hiding something,” and waggles his eyebrows at Clarke.

“Or maybe I just have some dignity left,” she says dryly.

Bellamy snorts. “Yeah, I keep forgetting how classy you are,” he agrees.

“The classiest,” she nods, serious, and then asks Octavia about some class project she’s been working on.

He should probably feel worse for knowing less about his sister’s personal life than their next-door neighbor, but. He’s more of a parent than an older brother, these days, and apparently that means he gets the eye-rolls and heavy sighs, while Clarke gets to be the confidant. It sucks, but at least Octavia has _someone_ she can talk to, even if he wishes it were him.

Wick finishes tinkering with Bellamy’s van, gives it one last look of disgust for good measure, and starts cleaning his hands with that gross orange mechanics’ soap that feels like gravel. “You owe me,” he says, looking at Bellamy pointedly.

“I introduced you to your future wife,” he argues, “ _You_ owe _me_ for the rest of your life.”

Bellamy met Raven at their GED test when he was nineteen, and they hooked up for a while, and just generally hung out, until Wick showed up one day and fell in love at first sight. They’ve lived together for some time now, but still call each other _roommates_ because Raven’s a commitment-phobe and has issues with labels. Wick seems okay with it, as long as _he_ knows they’re dating.

“And I just fixed up _your_ future wife,” Wick shrugs pleasantly.

“It’s nice to know you have such faith in me,” Bellamy says, dry, while Clarke and Octavia _cackle_ in the background.

Wick slaps him on the shoulder, leaving behind a smudge of the gritty soap, and Bellamy wipes at it with a grimace. “I’m here for you, Blake,” he grins, and salutes the girls before heading home.

“I cannot believe you bought the Mystery Machine,” Octavia declares, staring at the van with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Bellamy frowns.

“It’s not the Mystery Machine,” he argues, but Clarke’s staring at it too, now.

“It kind of is,” she muses. “Maybe even the original. This is its retirement plan.”

“Right,” he snorts, marching up towards his door. “Come on, it’s cannoli night.” He glances down at Clarke. “You can even have two,” he offers, because he is the actual worst at _not_ being around her.

Clarke hums appreciatively, folding her sketchbook closed and standing. Octavia’s already gone in, probably to try and sneak some whipped cream before he can stop her. “It’s not a _bad_ thing,” she says softly, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s still talking about the van. “You guys can drive around and solve crimes together! Like a brother-sister folk duo. But with more murder.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” he sighs, ducking so she won’t see him grin.

He probably should have taken it more seriously.

The first time, it’s an accident, at least. Bellamy’s driving towards the high school, late to pick Octavia up from dance practice, and Clarke is sitting shotgun because he’d offered to drive her to the grocery store for the cat litter she can’t fit on her moped.

They’re paused at a stop sign—because he’s gotten too many tickets in his life to risk speeding, even when late—when a man actually runs into the front of the car. He skids over the hood and falls off on the other side, and they both just sort of sit there staring for a moment, because _what the hell_.

Then Bellamy pulls himself together and jumps out to check on the guy, who’s alive but pretty out of it, so they drive him to the hospital and drop him off with the nurses. He offers to stay, for insurance reasons, but the van isn’t dented any more than it already was, and the man did run into _them_ , so the police decide he’s free to go.

By the time he gets home, the sun has set, and Octavia has caught a ride home from one of the other dancers. She’s pretty annoyed with him, until Clarke tells her what happened, and then she’s just annoyed she wasn’t there to see it.

A few hours later, the phone rings, which is weird since the landline almost never rings—he only kept it because they use it to vote for _American Idol_ twice. It’s the police officer from the hospital, with news about the patient.

It turns out he’s a wanted criminal, having _mailed himself out of prison_ four months earlier, avoiding capture ever since.

Bellamy thanks the officer and hangs up in a daze, and sits back on the couch. Clarke’s at the other end, drawing some sort of plant vine up both arms with a purple sharpie. She caps the marker, blows on the ink a little, and then kicks him in the leg.

“You’re being weird,” she accuses. “Was it a political thing?”

Bellamy has a lot of intense feelings about political surveys, and candidate marketing.

He shakes his head, and then just tells her, because there isn’t really a good way to condense that sort of thing. Clarke just stares dumbly at him after, which makes him feel a little better about himself, and then she calls Octavia out so she can hear, too.

“It’s the Mystery Machine,” O says, decidedly. “It’s magic.”

Bellamy frowns. “We’re not calling it that,” he huffs. It’s _his_ van—he should name it. He’ll probably go with something like _Cerberus_ , because he’s predictable. It’s definitely not going to be named after some old kids’ show icon.

“It is pretty weird,” Clarke considers, and he frowns at her. Realistically, he knows she’s more Octavia’s friend than his, and so is likely to always side with his sister, but. She was _there_ , and she’s always been his fellow cynic. He refuses to believe she actually thinks his ancient van is magic.

But then they’re at the corner of 5th and 8th, when some kid in a mask slips out of one of the several lotto-and-cigarettes shops. He tugs the mask off and stuffs it in his bulky pocket, and Bellamy pulls over with a screech, not really sure what he’s doing, until he tackles the guy to the sidewalk.

The store manager has already called the cops, and the officer from the hospital is one, and he just sort of shakes his head at Bellamy with a surprised grin.

“You some sort of vigilante?” he asks, once the robber’s cuffed and in the back of the cruiser. He leans up against the side of the van, while Bellamy just sort of stares at the scene, confused.

“No,” he frowns. “My sister thinks it’s the van.” It sounds even more stupid, out loud, but the cop just raises a brow.

“Maybe I should talk to the captain about buying all of us shitty vans from the nineteen-seventies,” he muses, and Bellamy laughs. “I’m Miller, by the way,” he offers a hand. “Well, Nate. But everyone calls me Miller—cops,” he explains, rolling his eyes.

“Bellamy Blake.” They shake, and Bellamy goes home, completely forgetting to buy milk, which is why he’d gone out in the first place.

He’s still willing to chalk it up to higher crime rates and strange coincidence, until he makes a right-on-red and comes nose-to-nose with the getaway car of a bank robbery two towns over. The pause is long enough for the cops in pursuit to catch up, and arrest the whole crew while Bellamy watches in quiet disbelief.

He sinks onto the stoop beside Clarke, with a sigh. “It _might_ be the Mystery Machine,” he admits, and she pats his hand consolingly.

“It’s okay Bell,” she smiles. She’s drawing the van, and has made it look a lot nicer than it actually does. She gave it wings, too.

“I’m drawing the line at magic, though,” he decides, leaning his head on her shoulder. She sighs, like she’s disappointed in him, and pokes him in the cheek with her pen.

Bellamy starts working the night shift at the college library—it’s open twenty-four hours, which is part of the reason he applied in the first place, and also the 3-D printer—and wakes up sometime in the afternoon to find Octavia and Clarke sitting in the driveway, stenciling some sort of pattern on the van, with the heavy duty paint markers Clarke uses for commissioned body paint jobs.

“It needs more flower power,” Octavia decides, looking scarily determined. There are smudges of paint on the sides of her face, that look like war paint.

Clarke nods and passes her a green marker, glancing up with a sunny smile when Bellamy steps into view. “Morning, sunshine,” she chirps, and Bellamy frowns around a yawn.

“Why are you defiling my van?” he asks, mild. He’s still pretty exhausted, not really used to the new sleep schedule yet, and Clarke’s talented enough that he’s not really worried. Whatever she chooses to do will look great—he just wishes she’d thought to consult _him_ about it.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” she explains, patting the bit of pavement beside her, and holding up a blue marker.

“We’re helping it fulfill its destiny, Bell,” Octavia declares, outlining some sort of daisy on the back door.

“Does its destiny have to look so lame?” he sighs, folding himself down beside Clarke and taking the marker. He’s not really sure what to draw, so he starts doodling some sort of checkerboard design above the wheel well. “Why can’t its destiny be _badass time travel_ , or something?”

“Flowers are _awesome_ ,” Octavia says, harsh.

Clarke gives him a look when he grumbles. “You know you have a bright blue butterfly stamped on your chest, right?” she points out. “You don’t really have any room to talk about what looks badass.”

Bellamy paints a thick blue stripe down the side of her neck, and a little bit of her hair, turning the ends green. She stares, shocked, and then her eyes narrow.

“Oh, it’s _on_ ,” she hisses, and then they’re wrestling on the lawn, streaks of paint going everywhere until he’s dizzy from the smell.

Neither of them really _win_ , since he’s too big for her to pin completely, and he’s too reserved about actually gripping her, but eventually their markers run dry and they just sort of decide to call it a draw.

Clarke heads into her side of the house to wash off, and Bellamy sits up to find Octavia staring at him, unimpressed. “Why don’t you just tell her?” she asks, exasperated, and Bellamy shrugs, playing it off.

“Tell her what?”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “That you think she’s awesome, and you want her to have your babies,” she says. “Duh.”

“Your concern is touching,” he says, dry. “I don’t want to date Clarke.”

“No,” Octavia agrees, “You want to _marry_ Clarke. It’s totally obvious, Bell. You’re sort of pathetic.”

“Don’t you have a soccer player to swoon over?” he asks, flushing in spite of himself. Octavia just looks smug about it.

“He’s at an away game,” she shrugs. “I’m working on it. Unlike _somebody_ , I am in total control of my love life.”

“You’re such a brat,” Bellamy messes up her hair, standing. “I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t fuck up my car.”

“You’re totally going to smell her shampoo,” Octavia says, somberly. “My brother’s a creep.”

“Yep,” he chirps, heading inside. Clarke has indeed left a bottle of her peaches-and-cream shampoo, probably from when she stayed the night to help O with her art project. He manages to hold out for the first ten minutes, before giving in and opening the bottle.

His sister’s right; he is a creep. The smell of manufactured peaches should not make him hard, but this is where he’s at, now.

The next day when he goes to pick Octavia up from school, she’s not alone. The potheads are with her—Bellamy can never remember their names; he’s only met them like twice, alright?—one on either side, chattering away pleasantly, if a little overenthusiastic the way most teenagers are.

“Whoa,” the first, and most energetic, of the two says as Bellamy pulls up to the curb. He’s eyeing the van appreciatively. “You weren’t kidding; it’s _awesome_!” He gives O a fist bump, and then slips into the backseat.

“Shag carpet,” the second boy says, “Nice.”

Octavia beams as Bellamy glares at her. “We have a computer project,” she shrugs. “They’re coming home with us.”

“We don’t have a computer,” Bellamy points out, and Octavia shrugs.

“Clarke does,” she says happily, propping her feet up on the dashboard like she _knows_ he hates. She’s _such_ a brat.

“If I see anything resembling plant life on either of your persons,” Bellamy says darkly, eyeing the boys in the rearview mirror. He watches them swallow nervously; it’s very satisfying. “I’m flushing it down the toilet, and then locking you in the basement.”

“For how long?” one boy asks.

“As long as I feel like,” Bellamy decides, and Octavia rolls her eyes.

“He’s kidding,” she promises, but at the next red light he mimes cutting their throats when she isn’t looking. One of them nearly cries, and it’s the best.

Clarke’s on her way to some art thing—he’s still not really clear on what she does for a living, other than odd jobs involving different art supplies—but she just gives Octavia a spare key and agrees to let them use the desktop for as long as they need.

“You’re an enabler,” he accuses as she straps on her helmet, and she shrugs.

“It’s a good thing I’m not friends with any drug addicts,” she decides, and zips away on the tiny blue machine.

“So that’s the girl my brother’s stupidly in love with,” Octavia explains, rolling her eyes, as her friends trail after her.

“I’ll cut the landline,” he threatens, and she cheerily says _no you won’t!_ before slipping inside.

He goes over to collect them for dinner, because even if he finds teenage boys unbearable on principle, he’s not about to let them _starve_. And they’re all appreciative, and genuinely interested in his job, and Clarke, and his life with Octavia. It’s a little hard to process, all the sudden positivity. He’s pretty used to Clarke’s sarcasm, and Octavia’s general despair in him as a person.

And so that’s how they adopt Monty and Jasper.

“Dude, I know you say you hate people,” Wick muses, nursing his beer. “But you have a lot of people, these days.” They’re gathered together at Clarke’s place, because Bellamy didn’t feel like straightening up the living room, and because Octavia has the boys over _again_. He’d been more worried, if he wasn’t sure they were still a little bit scared of him.

That, and the way Monty blushes whenever he sees Miller’s over watching the game. It’s cute, and Bellamy likes being able to rib someone else about romance, for once. Miller just shrugs it off, a little embarrassed. He’s younger than Bellamy, fresh out of the academy, and clearly isn’t used to the attention.

“He’s very popular,” Clarke agrees with a smirk. They’re packed around her tiny round table, so she’s a little squished between him and Raven, and her hair brushes his arm whenever she moves. “I think it’s the abs.”

“Or the tattoo,” Wick adds, and turns to Miller. “Have you seen the tattoo?”

“Yeah,” Miller nods, stone-faced. He really only smiles when his team scores. Or when Monty gets flustered around him.

“Butterflies are cool,” Bellamy says, mild. It’s been four years since he got the stupid thing, so he’s over being embarrassed about it. Mostly he just sort of forgets, or uses it as a good icebreaker at parties.

“Caught any bad guys lately with the Batmobile?” Raven asks, and Clarke snorts.

“He almost ran over a purse snatcher the other day,” she says, sounding fond as she looks up at him.

He probably shouldn’t kiss her. He _definitely_ shouldn’t kiss her in front of all their friends. At least, not for the first one.

It’s getting harder and harder, lately, to remind himself why this—why _she’s_ a bad idea. Mostly all the reasons are overshadowed by how much he likes her, which is a stupid amount. And he’s pretty sure she likes him too, at least a little, which somehow just makes everything _worse_.

He’s definitely pathetic. Octavia’s never going to stop saying _I told you so_ , he’s sure.

“The preferred name is Mystery Machine,” he tells Raven, because if he looks at Clarke, there’s no way he’ll be able to stop. He’s had too much to drink, clearly, which he tries not to do around her. He can’t trust himself around Clarke _sober_ , let alone drunk.

Clarke beams, oblivious to his plight, as usual, and sinks further into his side. It’s easy to slide an arm around to keep her there—they’re both cuddly people in general, even more so when they drink.

“Yeah, I don’t remember the Batmobile having so many flowers,” Wick goads.

“Flowers are badass,” Bellamy says, and Clarke laughs into his shoulder. “Don’t be jealous of my magic van.”

He wakes up curled up in Clarke’s bed, with her hair in his mouth and her elbow digging into his ribs. They’re both fully clothed, so he’s pretty sure nothing happened. He doesn’t have to make this a big deal. He can be cool and collected.

His legs get caught in the sheets when he tries to stand, and he ends up falling on his face. Clarke startles awake with a snort, takes one look at him, and laughs so hard she cries.

When she finally catches her breath, and he’s upright enough to glare at her, she says “You called the van magic last night,” which isn’t really what he’s expecting.

He frowns, a little thrown. “No I didn’t.” To be honest, he doesn’t remember much from last night, beyond how she felt nestled against him.

“You did!” she swears. “I heard you! So did Miller, and Wick—Raven was playing Robot Unicorn Attack, so I dunno if she did.” Her hair is crazy and all over the place, and her eyelashes are a little clumped together with old makeup, but she’s smiling down at him, all soft and warm and affectionate.

Bellamy stands, reaching for the hairbrush she keeps on the stand by her bed. “There’s no proof,” he teases, sitting beside her. She turns her head so he can comb through her hair easier, and then he braids it for good measure.

“You’re such a mother hen,” she makes a face, and he grins, pressing a kiss to the first coil of hair.

“You’re a disaster,” he says, and she ducks her head.

“Go take a shower, Bellamy. You smell.”

“You _spent the night_ ,” Octavia accuses when he slinks home. “And you _still_ aren’t together?” She makes a frustrated noise. She’s wearing fuzzy pajamas with clouds on them, and a pair of socks with googly eyes. It’s adorable.

“Strangely enough, platonic sleepovers do happen,” he teases, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she declares.

“Noted,” he mumbles around a yawn, padding down towards the bathroom.

“I thought you had game!” she calls after him.

The thing is, he _does_ have game. Or did, at least. Before Clarke. Bellamy had never been wanted for a love life, but it’s hard to pick up girls when his heart’s not really in it, so he just sort of stopped. He’d sort of thought he’d be past it, by now, but clearly miscalculated.

Clarke shows up a few hours later, hair still damp from the shower, looking comfortable in a pair of paint-stained shorts and an oversized tank top. He can see the lace of her bra underneath it, and is trying very hard not to stare.

She smiles a little thinly, and he suddenly remembers it’s the first of the month. “That time already?” he jokes, but it’s weak, and they both wince a little. They both hate this—it’s easy to forget she’s his sort-of-landlord, most of the time.

“Afraid so,” she sighs, stepping in. Her feet are bare, toes painted alternately silver and maroon. She follows Bellamy into the kitchen, where he pulls the envelope of rent money from the fridge and hands it over.

Then they forget again, and he pours them each some coffee—hers only halfway, so she can fill the mug with the sickly sweet caramel creamer he keeps in the fridge for her—and talk about work and Octavia and other things.

These talks are what got him in trouble, in the first place. The first time she’d come to collect rent, he’d been rushing around the apartment, getting the money together, while she told him all about her dads—their real landlords, and owners of the house—Theo and Marcus, and her biological mom Abby, who she still sees from time to time for lunch and other family occasions. Apparently her father died before she was born, and Abby wasn’t ready to be a single mother, so she handed Clarke off to family friends, who had been trying to adopt for a while.

“It’s weird,” she said, “When I tell people I’m adopted, they think I feel abandoned, or something. But, even though she was never really my mom, I still always knew her, you know? She’d send me birthday cards, and show up to the parties when she could. And I had my dads, so I always had more than enough parent—but I still sort of wish I could meet my father. Just to see what he was like. They always said I got his eyes.”

"Was it ever weird, having your dads  _and_ her, together?" he asked. He'd only ever had Aurora, and even then, that wasn't much. 

"Well, my dads did sort of blame themselves when I came out," Clarke said, looking a little smug when Bellamy choked. "I'm bi, and they were convinced it was me projecting, or something, and wanting to be like them. But no--I just like pussy." She was clearly very satisfied when he spilled his coffee. "And dick," she added with a smirk.

By the time he’d paid the first month’s rent, Bellamy knew pretty much everything about Clarke Griffin, and had a massive crush. She was just so—open, and easy, about _everything_ , and he fell in line. Within two weeks, she knew all about Aurora, and fighting for custody of O when he was just eighteen, because their mother was unfit.

It’s not an easy thing, hearing a stranger decide his mother isn’t much of a mother. He’d already known it, of course, for _years_ —since O was born, really—but. She’s still his mom.

“I get it,” Clarke said with a firm nod, and he didn’t doubt her for a second. “Unless they go through it with you, they can’t really know. They don’t have the right to pretend otherwise.”

In retrospect, that’s probably when he first wanted to kiss her. Which is a little weird, since they’d just been talking about _his mom_ , and his shitty childhood in general, but. Bellamy’s never really had good timing.

Neither does Octavia.

He’s still drinking coffee—or, holding the mug that’s been empty for an hour, now—with Clarke in the kitchen. She’s laughing at one of his crappy jokes, that she always seems to find genuinely funny, throwing her head back so her hair sways. “Hey,” he starts, stomach clenching. _It’s now or never…_ “What are you doing la—”

“ _Bell_ ,” Octavia calls, slamming through the door. Bellamy and Clarke jump from the counter, rushing out.

“What is it?” he demands, looking his sister up and down. She _looks_ alright, if a little frazzled. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Roma,” she says. Roma’s one of the girls on her dance team—she usually gives O a ride home when he can’t, and the buses are done running. “Someone stole her stuff!”

“What,” Bellamy frowns, confused, but Octavia just huffs a little.

“Someone _stole her stuff_ ,” she repeats. “I told her we’d help find it.”

“You _what_?” Bellamy asks. His sister has done some strange shit over the years, but this is a little beyond him. “Why?”

“The van solves crimes,” Octavia says, like it’s obvious, and Clarke snorts a little behind him.

“Octavia,” Bellamy starts firmly. “We aren’t crime solvers. This isn’t _Scooby Doo_. Have her call the police.”

“It’s kind of _Scooby Doo_ ,” Clarke muses, and Bellamy glares at her.

“She _has_ called the police,” Octavia says hotly. “Just—can we just _try_? Her necklace was in her bag—it was from her sister, who _died_. We have to get it back, Bell.”

Bellamy sighs, because apparently the inability to deny tragic girls runs in the family.

Monty and Jasper are already in the van when he walks outside. “Jesus,” he hisses when he sees them in the mirror. Jasper waves.

“Ready to kick some criminal butt?” he asks, entirely too pumped for something this ridiculous.

“Absolutely,” Clarke grins, sliding into the front seat. She grins at Bellamy. “Let’s go save the world.”

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he snorts, and she shrugs.

“First, Ark High Dance Team,” she says, serious. “ _Then_ , the world.”

When they pull up to the high school gym, Miller’s already there. He gives one look at their group and rolls his eyes. But he doesn’t try to stop them.

Octavia leads them over to Roma, marching right in like she belongs there, and Roma looks up at them, bleary-eyed. “You’re Clarke and Bellamy?” she asks, and they nod. “Why do you think you can help me?” She doesn’t sound disbelieving, just actually curious, like she doesn’t understand why they would bother with something like this on a Friday night.

“We drive around and solve crimes and stuff,” Octavia explains, and Bellamy fights an eye roll.

Roma looks confused. “Like _Scooby Doo_?” At that, Bellamy can’t hold it in.

“It’s not—” he starts, but Clarke cuts him off.

“Exactly like _Scooby Doo_ ,” she agrees. “Where did you last see your things?”

They look under the bleachers, and in the girls’ locker room, like Roma suggests, and then Octavia demands they all climb into the van and drive around the parking lot a few times, until the thief magically appears.

“Humor her,” Clarke shrugs, climbing in, and Bellamy sighs before starting the car.

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he warns as he pulls forward. “There’s a very good chance that nothing will—” There’s a loud thud as something hits the side of the van, and Bellamy jerks to a stop.

Jasper slides the side door open to reveal a faded pink bike, with a girl no older than fourteen, groaning on the ground beneath it. There’s a bag strapped to her back.

“That’s Roma’s!” O cries, and launches out like a rocket, determined to finally manhandle her first criminal. It’d probably have a cooler effect, if the criminal in question wasn’t tiny and crying.

“Where did she even _come_ from,” Bellamy breathes, staring. Clarke gives him a conspiratorial grin.

“Magic,” she whispers, and laughs when he glowers.

“That was so _awesome_ ,” Jasper declares. He has his phone out, presumably for his legion of Vine followers. He high fives Monty on camera, and then holds his fist out for Clarke and Bellamy to bump. Clarke gives it to him, and then prods Bellamy in the side until he does, too.

“Her name’s Charlotte,” Miller explains, leaning in through Bellamy’s window. “She was going to pawn the necklace and cell phone. Her parents are having money problems.” He eyes them each in turn. “She would have gotten away with it,” he says, and Jasper holds his breath while Monty melts into the shag. “If it weren’t for you nosy assholes,” he finishes.

“So close,” Jasper sighs, and Clarke laughs.

“We are so _Scooby Doo_ ,” Octavia chirps from the back on the way home. “Bell’s Freddy, because he drives, I’m Daphne, and Jasper’s Scooby Doo.”

“Hey,” Jasper says, clearly not sure if he should be offended.

“Who are me and Monty?” Clarke asks, mild.

“Velma and Shaggy, obviously.”

“Why do I have to be the dog?” Jasper whines, and they just sort of look at him pointedly. “Yeah, okay,” he concedes. “But that means I get my own snacks.”

Bellamy walks outside the next morning to find Clarke standing under the awning, glaring out at the rain. She’s dressed nicely, for once—or, nice for Clarke. Mostly that just means she’s wearing clothes that actually fit, and aren’t stained.

“Car troubles?” he teases, and she turns her glare on him, gesturing with her helmet a little forcefully.

“How am I supposed to ride, in this?” she demands, and he tries his best not to laugh.

But, she laughs at him _a lot_ , and usually with his sister, so it’s only fair. “You could maybe, I don’t know, get an _actual car_ ,” he suggests.

“Ingrid is _awesome_ ,” Clarke huffs, and he rolls his eyes.

“Come on, you baby. I’ll give you a lift.”

They’re on the freeway when the van starts to give a horrifying whining noise, and slow down considerably.

“What’s going on?” Clarke demands, glaring at the dash like the force of her anger alone could restart the engine.

Bellamy frantically pushes the gas pedal, but they just slow down even more. He pulls off onto the shoulder, before the van rolls to a stop and then dies with a shudder. He swears, turning the key a few times, shifting into different gears, and turning the lights on and off. Nothing works, and eventually he just sits back.

“Some lift,” Clarke mutters, and he frowns.

“You’re welcome to walk back,” he grouses, and she turns, mouth open and eyes flashing, clearly ready for a fight.

He doesn’t give her one.

One minute, they’re staring, eyes hard and burning—and the next, he’s leaning across the console and she’s surging up to meet him.

He kisses her like he’s trying to persuade her to let this happen, and she kisses him back hard and unyielding—she wants a fight, and she’s going to have one. She bites his lip until he whimpers, and then grins against his mouth, smug.

He digs his fingers in the back of her neck until she whines “ _Bell_ ,” and he almost fucking dies right then.

“Get in the back,” he demands, and she rushes to unbuckle her seat belt and clamber over the seat, with him right behind.

Things don’t slow down after that, but they have more room, and everything’s easier. He bends down to unbutton her shirt with his fucking teeth and she clutches his head to her breasts, her stomach, her crotch when he reaches her little jean shorts.

“Bell,” Clarke says, but it’s not a moan this time, and he stops to look up. She’s propped on both elbows, worrying her lip, and _nervous_ , which doesn’t seem like a good sign. “I don’t—” she huffs a little. “This isn’t just a hook up,” she decides, making her face go hard like if she _looks_ like she isn’t scared, then she won’t be. “I don’t want it to be, so if you do, we should, um. We should stop…” she trails off when he starts to grin, and now she’s frowning, with that crease between her eyebrows that he’s wanted to kiss for _ages._

So he does. He trails his lips down over her closed eyelids, the peak of her nose, her cheeks, and then licks into her mouth slow and needy before pulling back. She blinks up at him, smile small and hopeful.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” he says, easy. How is it this easy? Octavia’s going to be insufferable.

“Oh, good,” Clarke grins, and pushes his head back down between her thighs. “Carry on, then.”

He laughs into her until she moans, and then licks until she’s writhing around, and then sucks until she goes rigid under his arms.

She pulls him up to make out after that, and then starts grinding up against his dick until he can barely see.

“Condoms?” she asks, breathless, and it really shouldn’t be this _easy_ , but. She wants him. She’s just as desperate for him, and he kisses her again because he just can’t seem to stop. “Condoms,” she mumbles again, into his mouth.

“In the glove box,” he stutters, because now she’s gripping him, firm and steady as she pulls a few times. She reaches over to sift through the insurance papers and old gas station receipts. She pulls one out with a contented sigh, and then rolls it on him, because _of course_ she’s bossy in bed. He’s ridiculously into it. He’s ridiculously into _her_.

“I kind of love you too,” she says, sliding down on him. “Just so you know.”

It’s still raining when they finish, and they just lay tangled and sweaty in the shag carpeting, probably staining it beyond repair as they catch their breath.

Her hair is covering his face, but he doesn’t really mind. It smells like peaches, and he’s already half hard again. She rolls back against him with a laugh, and he kisses her shoulder.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asks.

"Why didn't you?" Bellamy counters.

Clarke snorts. "Mature."

"I don't know," he hedges. "Lots of reasons. You were my sort-of landlord, you're O's friend, you didn't seem interested--"

" _I_ didn't seem interested because  _you_ didn't seem interested!" she argues, and then laughs because  _they could have had this months ago_.

"Cool, we're both pathetic," Bellamy muses, pressing a kiss to the skin behind her ear, and she hums.

Suddenly, the van comes to life, a subtle roar of engine buzzing beneath them. They freeze.

“Okay,” Bellamy decides, “The van is magic.”

Clarke tucks her grin against his neck.

“I _told_ you.”


End file.
